Chapter Sixteen
In which Violet gets an up close and personal introduction to Roman’s world.
Violet…
"Hey Rose, Iris? I'm about to head out with Roman. He's assigning five men to your security detail so you can go out. Have a good time at lunch, but please don't give them any trouble."
I pause in their doorway. There are two big boxes piled up by the dresser. "What is this?" I call out.
Iris strolls out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth. "Those boxes? Oh, just some books and dorm room stuff for college," she says, thickly, putting up a finger as she heads back into the bathroom to spit.
"How much stuff?" I ask, circling the boxes. "And from who?"
"One of the girls we know from school, you remember Mary Katherine. I guess her sister just graduated and she thought we could use some things for our room. We're trying to be thrifty," she says.
"That was nice of her. I could ask Roman to store those for you downstairs, if you want."
No!" Rose hurries in, sweaty from a workout. "They're just fine here, we need to go through them anyway."
Vova, one of Roman's lieutenants, passes by the room, looking exhausted. "Were you torturing that poor man?" I ask sternly.
Rose looks deeply wounded. "Well, that's hurtful. I just asked him to teach me some Krav Maga moves. He's really good."
"I appreciate your interest in self-defense, but no more using your charms on Roman's men." I point my finger at them both. "That is not the behavior of a good guest."
"If we break 'em, we buy them?" Iris says hopefully.
"I'm going to see if Roman has a female guard who could teach you." The two of them are staring at me with identical expressions of attempted innocence.
It's a weak effort.
"Okay, I'm out of here," I say. "Please, be good."
"Have fun!" They chorus as I head down the stairs.
My cell rings and it's Larry, sounding distinctly peevish.
"It's not like I don't want you to be safe," he says.
"But when are you coming back? Can you do it if you bring bodyguards or something?
Running this place on my own is killing me and the city is coming in for a safety review next week.
I don't know what the hell we need to do. "
"I'm sorry!" Guilt is twisting her sharp nails into my heart. I hear Larry's exhaustion. "Let me talk to Roman, there's got to be something we can do."
"Please," he groans. "Do you know what those little shits did? The tenth-grade study crew tried to sneak in last night and throw a rave. There's still glowsticks scattered everywhere. I found a bottle of 'punch' that was so flammable it's a miracle they didn't set the place on fire."
"Let me see if I can stretch the budget for an overnight security guard." I rub my forehead, feeling the headache creeping in. "I'm sure I can come back soon. It looks like Jack disappeared. Poppy hasn't called me once in over a week, so maybe they ran off together."
"At this point, I don't know if I'm more pissed off at Jack for trying to sell the three of you, or at you for forcing me to handle the shelter alone," Larry says plaintively. "I swear if I find him, I'll drop him in the East River. There's not a jury in this state who would convict me."
"I hear you," I agree fervently. I can't tell him that I'm hoping that Jack succumbed to his injuries after all, and Roman just hasn't found him yet. "Look, I've got to go. Roman's taking me out somewhere, he thinks he has some information about The Chads that might help us."
"The sooner the better," Larry says.
"What does your t-shirt say today?" I'm worried that he still sounds so miserable.
"I don't know if you deserve to know what my t-shirt says." Yeah, he's pissed.
"Pleeease?"
"Fine. It says, You're not paranoid if everyone really is out to get you," he says.
"Excellent!" I wedge my phone under my chin so I can clap for him.
"Bye, Violet."
Searching the downstairs, I find Roman standing in the open door to the basement, speaking quietly with Ivan. I angle my neck, trying to look around him, there's nothing but a staircase. No racks of bazookas or piles of grenades. Roman catches my eager look and chuckles.
"Are you ready?" he says, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the downstairs. Unless I want to jump up and down in an ungainly fashion, I'm not getting a glimpse over his shoulder.
"Sure," I say ungraciously.
Roman helps me into his Bugatti, leaning over and matter-of-factly clicking my seatbelt shut for me before closing the door.
I press my knuckles against my chest, there's an ache there.
There is something so simple about him doing that for me, a concern for my safety.
Caring for me. When was the last time I felt this way? Have I ever felt this way?
Damnit! I think. He's spoiling me. This is terrible!
I can't let this pampering continue. I'll be useless by the time the girls and I have to leave. That thought is so depressing that I shove it out of my mind. I'm going to enjoy this for as long as I have it.
He pulls out onto the street, a mom is walking a baby in a $2,500 McLaren stroller on the sidewalk, she waves at Roman and he waves back with an affable, 'hey we're just all neighbors here,' sort of way.
Two men dressed in their Wall Street best are listlessly exchanging conversation, coffee cups in hand, briefcases in the other, gearing up for another day as Alpha Males and Titans of Industry.
"That must be incredibly exhausting," I say.
Roman glances over to them quickly, then back to me. "What specifically?"
"They have their big expensive suits on, holding their briefcases like a weapon, ready to charge into battle. The day just started and they already look beat to hell."
He puts his hand onto my thigh, his thumb absently smoothing over my dress. "Hmm." Just hmm.
"Do you ever feel like that?" I ask, watching his expression. "You always seem so sure of yourself. But you're only twenty-nine. You didn't get that usual decade that the rest of us do for being stupid and making mistakes."
His hand tightens just slightly as we stop for a light, a surge of commuters flooding the crosswalk. "There's no room for stupidity in the Brava," he says slowly. "I was named Vor when I was twenty-one. I have a responsibility to my family. Mistakes are deadly."
"So..." I'm floundering here. This is so out of my realm of experience that I'm groping for some sort of analogy to real-world humans. "This isn't like not getting the quarterly report in on time and getting demoted from senior finance bro to junior finance bro."
His expression doesn't change, but a shadow darkens his face in a way that is distinctly unsettling.
"If I make a mistake, people die," he says calmly.
"My brother perhaps, or my cousin, one of our lieutenants, even the lowest Brigadier is my responsibility.
I'm here to track threats to my family before they become a problem. "
"That seems like a lot of pressure," I say doubtfully. "So much responsibility to carry. How do you handle that?"
"Playtime," he says, his grin looking more like a leer.
I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses, trying to not get all flustered and failing. "Now Roman, you can't just screw away all your problems," I scold, sounding disconcertingly like my sixth-grade teacher and not at all like the cosmopolitan women I'm sure he's used to.
"Of course I can," he says. There's a flock of teenagers stepping mindlessly into traffic at the corner and he slows down enough to let them scatter.
"There's all kinds of different playtimes," he says.
"Simply blowing off steam sex. Long, elaborate, drawn out sex.
Like I'm going to do to you." Oh yeah, now his grin is definitely a leer.
"What else?" I say, my voice pitched embarrassingly high. "Your cold plunge baths?"
He doesn't laugh the way I expect, his hand is rubbing along the side of my thigh now, and it's very distracting. That monstrous Russian paw of his is big enough that his fingers spread over my thigh, extremely close to my center.
"There are other sorts of playtime," he says finally. But he doesn't say it like he means a rugby game with his friends on Saturdays. "Part of my job is to protect," he says, looking briefly behind us as he changes lanes. "The other half is to punish."
Oh, I am so out of my depth right now.
The car is silent for a moment, just the muted sound of horns outside our window.
"So, when you say punish," I ask, clearing my throat awkwardly. "Do you mean like, 'bring me the heads of your enemies' kind of punishment or 'I'm going to make an example of you so horrible that your ancestors will throw up just thinking about you for decades to come' horrible?"
Roman bursts into laughter, looking genuinely pleased with me. "And here I thought you'd be trying to get out of the car at the next stop," he says admiringly. "But yes, sometimes both."
"Oh," I say. "So do you have torture, torture chambers, the way you have sex torture chambers?
" My thoughts are drifting off into the air and I can't seem to pluck them back into proper order because Holy Mother of God, I'm talking about torture chambers with the man who is keeping me and my sisters alive.
"Nothing is ever centralized, of course," he says.
"Of course," I agree.
"We have several different places," he continues before giving me a dark smile. "But I can always be creative in a pinch."
"Well, sure," I echo hollowly. "It's important to utilize your creativity in times such as those."
He gives my thigh another squeeze as I'm screaming inside my head.
"You're screaming inside, aren't you?" Roman says.
"Only a little!" I say defensively. "Though I have to ask, why are you telling me this?"
"The logical answer is that I have something on you. You've hired me to murder your stepfather. So now, you have something on me."